


Toolbox

by kuppatan



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, JD's like 12-13 in this, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuppatan/pseuds/kuppatan
Summary: His mom is dead, his dad is drunk, and he still hasn’t finished unpacking his clothes into the new house. But hey, at least his dad’s toolbox has a razor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for a pretty explicit description of cutting, depression, cigarette mention, and alcohol mention. There's nothing super serious but if that stuff affects you really badly, you might want to steer clear.
> 
> Art for this: https://kuppatan.tumblr.com/post/156926479192/later-he-uses-his-dads-wallet-to-buy-a-slushie
> 
> EDIT: Made some changes for reading smoothness.

It was a new town. Away from the ashes of his mother in the rubble of a public library. There was no body for a proper funeral and no reason either. His dad called up a U-Haul not even a week later.

“Man, I sure am excited to see the new town, Pops.” said Big Bud Dean with teeth showing. It might have been a smile if his dad’s eyes weren’t so dead.

"Good to hear it, son.” J.D mimicked back in the same tone of factory cheer. Maybe deadness was hereditary.

* * *

 

Now, he sits on the sidewalk behind his current school with his dad’s toolbox next to him. The setting sun casts everything in a saturated orange light. Crows caw as they settle on telephone lines. It was close enough to evening that he probably shouldn’t be out, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He sucks in a breath of warm mid-evening air. The pavement is gravelly and cracked under his jeans. The duct tape on the soles of his shoes sticks to the asphalt of the road, leaving gummy marks of adhesive as he rocks his feet back and forth slowly from the street. His dad’s toolbox sits next to him.

He hefts up the old rusty tool box into his lap. His dad keeps everything he might want at ‘work’ in it. He wouldn’t notice it missing anytime soon. As far as J.D. knew, Big Bud Dean was still passed out on the couch with his seventh beer half-emptied and he would stay that way until 9 AM tomorrow. He flips up the latches and opens the box. Then, he rummages through the various compartments. The rough, metal sides scrape against his skin lightly. He puts aside a leather wallet, an opened pack of stick mint gum, a wrench, and several pliers. The gum was for working off the cigarette addiction his mom always nagged his dad about. The pliers are used for wiring explosives. Maybe if his mom didn’t nag his dad, she would still be alive. Maybe if his dad wasn’t such a dick, his mom wouldn’t have walked into a building he set to blow up.

J.D. breaks from his musings as his fingers brush against something sharp within the depths of the toolbox. He takes it out and turns it around in his hands. It’s a black, plastic disposable razor. The kind you would buy at a gas station. He never took his dad as a particularly vain man or, for that matter, one that would find it necessary to shave in the middle of ruining people’s lives.

“Well, you learn new something everyday.” He mutters to himself. The blades were still sharp despite being buried deep in the poorly cared for toolbox. Sharp enough to cut skin, he found as his index finger began bleeding after he tested the razor on it. The handle was rather unwieldy though, if he were to cut himself on purpose.

The prospect of cutting wasn’t new to J.D. Cloying sweet afterschool specials came on T.V. every now and then; the scripted PSAs typically end in tears of understanding from family and friends with the poor victim of depression miraculously cured through love. Now, in the position of cutting himself, he didn’t feel like crying as some narrator passed out commentary about the tragedy of today’s youth. Really, he didn’t feel anything. Anything at all. A sort of cotton wall had formed between him and the world and now everything was muffled. Curiously, the muffling brought a clarity, a path without any hesitation or mental obstruction. An obvious choice to be made.

First, he snaps off the handle of the razor. He could get better pressure on the blades this way. With the handle out of the way, he brings the razor to his wrist. J.D. pauses. He’d hate to be unable to read a book for the rest of his life because he got handsy with a razor and cut a tendon in his wrist or something stupid like that. So, instead, he shoves up the denim of his right pantleg.

The slick, steely blades of the razor dig into his skin as he presses down. It’s intoxicating, watching the blade and feel it grip down into his flesh as he slides it a neat line. Invigorating almost. There’s a relief as sudden emotion and purpose floods his mind in a way he didn’t know he missed through the dampening of everything. It takes but seconds for beads of blood to well up out of the shallow cut. He slashes across his leg several more times. The pain registers as a buzz in the back of his mind and mild stings on his leg. As he continues cutting, it becomes a mechanical process. Press. Slide. Lift. Repeat.  He can feel the interest slip from his fingers like grains of sand as reality bleeds through his concentration. The evening breeze rustles through his hair. The feeling of rapt attention to his injuries fades into monotone. His right leg is a mess of shallow, bloody cuts. He rolls up the left leg of his jeans and lands a few slashes for good measure. Just to test if there was any feeling left in him. Finally, the fog of boredom seeps back into his mind fully, covering reality in a film of apathy.

J.D tucks the bloody razor into his pocket, perhaps for a later time. The high of pain was good while it lasted. He sighs. The sky steadily turns into a purple-maroon as stars begin to dot the sky. The crows’ caws die out. He looks down at his dad’s wallet. It probably has at least 20 bucks inside and there’s a 7/11 about a block from his school.

A slushie sounded good right now.


End file.
